In Italia
by Aneko-neko25
Summary: Short drabbles featuring Italy and Romano (probably more of Romano, 'cause he's my fav), with each chapter based on a line from the song "In Italia" by Fabri Fibra ft. Gianna Nannini. No connected chapters, and genre will probably change from chapter to chapter.
1. Chapter 1

Short drabbles featuring Italy and Romano (probably more of Romano, 'cause he's my fav), with each chapter based on a line from the song "In Italia" by Fabri Fibra ft. Gianna Nannini. No connected chapters, and genre will probably change from chapter to chapter.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hetalia. Nor do I own the song "In Italia"

CHAPTER 1

_Ci sono cose che nessuno ti dir__à__  
_There are things nobody will tell you

No one ever told him that his little brother was better than him. They didn't have to. It was more what they didn't say that told him how they really felt. They would praise Veneziano for everything he did, but never once did they do the same for Romano. They gushed over how cute Veneziano was, how talented Veneziano was, but they took no notice of Romano.

He got used to it. He got used to opening the fridge only to find that Veneziano had used the tomatoes he worked so hard to grow for his pasta sauce. He stopped bothering to hang up the pictures he drew since Veneziano's would just get hung up over his, and eventually he just stopped drawing. He told himself he didn't care when the three of them went outside and Grandpa Rome always ended up taking his wide-brimmed hat and dropping it on Veneziano's head with a grin, while Romano shielded his eyes from the sun with arms that just grew darker and darker. He pretended it didn't hurt when Grandpa Rome turned away from him when he was talking just to listen to Veneziano babble on about a kitten or a butterfly or whatever else he happened to see. And eventually he stopped talking. If they wouldn't say anything to him, then he had nothing to say to them.


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: I still don't own Hetalia, or the song "In Italia"**

Human AU

* * *

_Ci sono cose che nessuno ti dar__à__  
_There are things nobody will give you

* * *

Lovino opened his eyes, then groaned and stuffed the pillow over his face.

"Can today just be over already?" He asked no one, his words muffled by the pillow.

It was the most dreaded day of the year: Lovino's birthday. He wasn't sure when it started, but somehow he grew to fear his birthday. He hated attention, being singled out for any reason, be it good or bad. It wasn't like he had a horrible childhood or something. He just always felt really uneasy when the other kids would all stare at him and sing to him in elementary school. He attributed most of his fear to that one traumatic event in high school where Feliciano convinced the entire marching band to play 'happy birthday' to him at a football game. That was when he stopped telling people when his birthday was, for fear that something like that would happen again.

It was when he and Antonio had been dating for two years that the Spaniard came to the realization that he had forgotten to celebrate Lovino's birthday.

"_I'm really embarrassed to admit it, Lovi," Antonio stammered. "But I don't even remember when it is!"_

"_That's because I never told you." Lovino had retorted._

"_We could just have an extra-big celebration for the next one!" Antonio had grinned at him. "So come on, tell me!"_

"_No!" Lovino's voice came out a lot sharper than Antonio was expecting. His smile slipped off his face._

"_Lovi, I'm really sorry," Antonio said. "But I can make it up to you, I promise. Please don't be mad."_

"_I'm not mad." Lovino said. He really wasn't mad. Terror was choking his words, not anger. He loved his Spanish boyfriend, but the man was sometimes a little too enthusiastic. He hugged a little too long (something that had freaked Lovino out at first, but he was slowly getting more used to) and he talked a little too loud. And Lovino wouldn't put it past him to whip out that damn guitar and start singing 'happy birthday to you', 'feliz cumplea__ñ__os a ti', and 'buon compleanno a te', all in a row like a never-ending torture-fest._

_Antonio pestered him for a full week about the matter. It was when the idiot began telling people everywhere they went that today was Lovino's birthday that the Italian finally caved. He dragged Antonio out of the restaurant where the waitresses were trying to present him with a slice of cake with a sparkler sticking out of it._

"_What'cha doing, Lovi? I thought you liked cake—"_

"_You need to stop this. Right. Now." Lovino shoved him against the brick wall._

"_I'll stop when you tell me when your actual birthday is." Antonio grinned at him. Lovino shoved him into the wall again._

"_You don't get it, do you?!" He shouted. "Did you ever, _ever_ stop and consider why I won't tell you?!"_

"_You're playing hard to get?" Antonio guessed, a little worried by his boyfriend's behavior. _

"_No, you bastardo!" Lovino shouted. "Don't you think if I was normal I would have just told you?! That I would milk it like everyone else?!"_

"_Huh?" Antonio was genuinely confused now. _

"_I hate it! I hate my birthday, alright! I'm fucking afraid of it, and I don't know why!" Lovino twisted his fingers into Antonio's shirt and pressed his forehead to his chest. "I don't even understand why… it has something to do with all the attention, being singled out and put in the center of attention… it just freaks me the fuck out…"_

"_Oh." Antonio looked back at the restaurant guiltily. He guessed that singing waiters and a sparkler-topped cake was probably a pretty bad move._

"_I'm sorry," Lovino sobbed. "You were just trying to be nice, but I had to go and freak out… I'm sorry… I'm such a freak…"_

"_No, cari__ñ__o." Antonio wrapped his arms around him. "You're not a freak; it's fine. I didn't understand before, but now I do, and I won't do that again."_

"_Promise?" Lovino asked quietly._

"_Sí, I promise." Antonio stroked his hair soothingly. Lovino said nothing for a moment, then buried his face in Antonio's chest again._

"_The second of June." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm trusting you with this information, so don't you dare use it against me."_

"_Thank you, Lovi," Antonio hugged him tighter. "I won't."_

"Loviiiiiinooooo!"

Lovino's eyes snapped open at the sound of the bubbly Spaniard's voice.

"Good morning!" Antonio sang.

"And just what makes this morning so good?" Lovino glared at him. The Spaniard flashed him a grin.

"Absolutely nothing!" He said. "Other than the fact that it's sunny out, and a Tuesday – I quite like Tuesdays, you know – and I feel like doing something fun today! So get up, get dressed, and come eat breakfast!" Antonio stole the pillow away from Lovino's grip when he tried to put it over his face again. Lovino waited until he heard Antonio singing along to some Gipsy Kings song playing on his ipod in the kitchen before the Italian permitted himself a small smile as he got dressed. Ever since that day, Antonio never said or sang happy birthday to him, never announced to anyone that it was his birthday, never did anything to acknowledge that this day was any more special than any other day. Lovino knew the date was marked in his boyfriend's calendar, but Antonio never did anything on the day itself. He never once gave him any sort of material present, yet instead gave him absolute nothingness. And for Lovino, that was the best thing Antonio could ever give him.

* * *

**AN: Guess whose birthday it is today? Me. And guess who dreads/hates/fears their birthday? Me. Why? Yeah, yeah, I know, it's bad authoring to shove your personal feelings onto characters… ^.^0**

**This turned out to be a long one… *whew!* Don't expect them to all be like this!**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Another short one. Sorry for not updating sooner; I've been super busy.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hetalia, nor do I own the song "In Italia"**

* * *

_Sei nato e morto qua, sei nato e morto qua, nato nel paese delle mezze verit__à_  
You're born and you die here, you're born and you die here, born in this country of half truths

* * *

They didn't choose this life. They were born into it. That's how it worked; if you were family, you were in. And if you were in, there was no getting out.

Feliciano hated it. He hated the secrecy, the killing, the drugs. He hated the half-true, half-venom lies whispered in the darkness. He hated the weight of the gun in his hands. He died a little bit more inside whenever he had to lift that weight. In killing others, he was slowly killing himself. And he didn't know how much longer he could take it.

Lovino loved it. He loved the feeling of a gun in his hand. The cold, smooth metal against his skin made him shiver in excitement. He loved the power. The power to take whatever he wanted, be it their money, their sanity, or even their life. He loved the secret plots formed in darkness and curling cigar smoke, just so long as they weren't directed at him. If they were, he loved to thwart those plots. Because he was at the top, he was able to do so. And he loved being at the top of it all.

They were born into it, and they would die in it. Whether by old age or at the point of a gun, they would die in this underground world of deceit.

* * *

**AN: That first line… *snicker* "I didn't choose the thug life, the thug life chose me"**

**They're talking about the mafia life, in case you didn't get that.**

**And yeah, I know I put two lines together when each of these chapters is supposed to be about just one. But really, she says the same thing twice and then says something similar, so I just lumped the lines together. So sue me (kidding, please don't)**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Sorry this took so long to get up! The internet in my dorm has been so spastic lately... "Oh, you want to upload a new chapter? Let's just die right when you hit the upload button! Oh, you have a paper due electronically? I don't feel like connecting! You need to check your email to find out where practice is today? I'm not gonna work, sucks to suck!" Damn you, internet... .0**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hetalia or the song "In Italia"**

**WARNING! Austria-bashing, hints at child abuse**

* * *

_Dove fuggi? In Italia_  
Where do you run away? In Italy

* * *

He knew Austria hated him. All the prissy aristocrat wanted was more land. He wanted both the Italies, together, for himself. He thought he could change Romano, make him more like Veneziano. He thought he could make him obedient.

He thought he could beat it into him.

The prissy bastard hadn't counted on one thing though; that Romano was cunning and cowardly enough to run away from any situation he didn't like. And he really didn't like Austria's house. Late at night, when the moon was new and the night was dark, Romano cracked open the window of his room and squeezed himself out. The window only opened so far, and was designed so that a normal person wouldn't be able to fit through it. Romano grinned wryly as he dropped down onto the grass and reached back up to push the window shut. If Austria didn't want Romano to be able to fit through the window, then maybe he shouldn't have starved him.

"_You'll get food when you clean everything you're supposed to in a timely manner!" _He could picture the prissy bastard saying it, his mouth turned down in its ever-present pout. God knows Romano had heard him say that enough times. And when he did feed him, all he had were those stupid potatoes. The damn things could never fill his belly like a hearty plate of pasta could. Romano frowned and kicked the wall of Austria's house before taking off, sprinting across the lawn and into the forest. He kept running, even though he was gasping for breath. He ran until the trees started to thin out into fields, and he kept running until he saw the big house surrounded by gardens. He spotted a figure straightening up from his work in the vegetable garden, stretching in the early morning light. He ran until he crashed right into the man, wrapping his arms around the man's legs and shouting at him.

"You bastard! Don't ever let him take me away again!" He cried, clinging to Spain's legs. Spain disentangled him and lifted him up to look at him.

"Romano? What are you doing here?" He asked.

"I ran away, you bastard!" Romano kicked his little legs and swung his little arms at him. "He wouldn't let me eat and he made me clean everything, and he was mean and I just wanna stay with you, stupid bastard!"

Holding him as he was, Spain could feel that his little Romano had lost weight since he had first been taken away by Austria. He brought him close to his chest and hugged him tightly, feeling a pair of small arms wrap around his neck. His Romano had run to him, so he would protect him.

* * *

**AN: Apparently I specialize in depressing fluff. :\ (Is that even a thing?)**

**I promise I'll try to make the next one happier!**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Okay I lied. This one isn't exactly happy either.**

* * *

_Pistole in macchine, in italia_  
Guns in the cars, in Italy

* * *

He never told Germany that he kept a gun the trunk of his car. He didn't like having a gun, but found it necessary. Germany thought he was a helpless idiot, and he was fine with that. He had seen what he could become with a gun in his hands – a truly heartless killing machine – and he didn't like it one bit. So the gun sat in his trunk and went unused for a long time, and Italy kept a smile on his face to try and forget about it.

He knew he should have taken a different road. There was construction on this road and the pavement was all torn up. But it was the most direct route, so he had taken it. He and Germany were driving through the countryside and it had gotten dark. They had been taking turns driving, and now Italy was behind the wheel while Germany slept in the passenger seat with his head propped against the window. They were crawling along at a snail's pace on the gravel road, even though there were no other cars around. But he knew that going any faster would cause the gravel to rip his tires to shreds.

As bad luck would have it, there was a sudden lurch and a sound like a rocket going off, jolting Germany back to wakefulness.

"What's going on?" He asked, looking around. Italy turned the car off.

"Ve, it looks like we got a flat tire." He pulled the keys out of the ignition. "Don't worry, though. I've got a spare and a jack in the trunk."

Germany nodded and got out of the car. Italy opened the trunk and moved some things around to find the tire and jack, his hand brushing against the gun hidden under the blanket. He shivered. Germany hefted the tire in one hand and the jack in his other. Italy let him. He knew cars, no doubt about it, but he had to admit that Germany was better at fixing cars. He was content to hold the flashlight for him.

"A nail." Germany inspected the flat tire. "Damn construction." He tossed it to the side and got to work. Italy's eyes searched the darkness, feeling uneasy. A breeze swept through the trees on either side of the road, creating an eerie, rustling chorus as the shadows seemed to reach their arms toward them. Italy shivered at the thought.

"Italy," Germany's voice broke him out of his musings. He looked down and saw that he had dropped the beam of the flashlight to the road at his feet.

"Oops." Italy pointed the light back to where Germany was working. "Ve, sorry, Germany."

Just as Germany was finishing up, Italy heard a soft crack behind him. He whirled around and searched the darkness with his flashlight, ignoring Germany's protests. The beam fell upon a wild-eyed, blood-stained man at the edge of the forest. He lurched toward them, the rusted and blood-caked blade in his hand glinting dully in the dim light.

Without a second thought, Italy ran to the trunk of the car and grabbed the gun from underneath the blanket.

"What the hell?!" He heard Germany shout, although he didn't know whether it was in response to Italy holding a gun or whether he had finally spotted the blood-stained man. Italy flicked the safety off and pointed it at the man. Just as the man roared and hefted his butcher knife, preparing to swing at them, Italy pressed the trigger. There was a deafening bang, and Germany slapped his hands over his ears belatedly. The bloody man staggered a half a step backwards, looking shocked. Italy shot him twice more before he went down to his knees. There was blood spurting out of his chest, staining the white gravel dark red. Italy shot him once more, right in the center of his forehead. The man's eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, dead.

Italy kept his gun trained on the man's body for a few moments, even after he fell. His grandfather's words rang in his head: _Make sure your enemy is really dead before you walk away_. Rome didn't get to be as great as he had been by playing nice on the battlefield, something that he taught his grandchildren from the time they were small.

Germany was frozen in shock. Was this really the same Italy he knew? The same Italy who played with cats during weapons training, who doodled in his notebook at world meetings, who constantly walked around with a happily glazed-over expression on his face? The Italy standing before him wore a hard, serious, focused expression as he still held the gun pointed at the man – the man he had just _shot_, _four times_ with perfect accuracy. His hands had held the gun completely still, not even fazed by the weapon's kick.

"I-Italy?" Germany asked cautiously. Italy glanced at him, and Germany was shocked by the steely coldness in his eyes. He then lowered the gun and turned to face him, closing his eyes and giving Germany his trademark smile.

"If you're done fixing the tire, we should probably leave now. Ve?" Italy said, clicking the safety back on and placing the gun back under the blanket in the trunk.

"Uh, yeah." Germany looked from the now-bubbly Italian to the dead murderer on the side of the road. "Ja, I'm finished."

"Okee-dokee, then, let's go." Italy opened the driver's side door.

"Um, I'll drive." Germany said quickly. This rapid change in the Italy he thought he knew scared him, and he didn't particularly want to be in the car with him driving.

"Ve, alrighty." Italy went around to the passenger side of the car. Germany got in the driver's seat and turned the car back on. He shuddered as he looked in the rearview mirror and saw the bloody body bathed in the red glow of the tail lights. As he pulled onto the road he looked at Italy and noticed that his hands had started shaking slightly.

* * *

**AN: I think North Italy is secretly a badass :3**

**Not sure how the next one will turn out, but after that, **_**that**_** one will be happy! I know, because I already have chapter 7 written! Chapter 6 is going to require a bit of background research, though.**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Um, so, sorry I've been dead lately... I've been so busy, it's been ridiculous. But the good news is that I have *most* of the next one written already **

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hetalia, or the song "In Italia"**

* * *

_Machiavelli e Foscolo in italia  
_Machiavelli and Foscolo in Italy

* * *

Francis was reading a book in his favorite armchair by the fireplace when he heard a knock on his door. He looked up, wondering who would be coming to his house at this time of the night. He took note of the page number he was on before closing the book and laying it on the small table next to his chair. Striding across the room to the front door, he opened it. Instantly the cold, wintery air invaded his house, making him shiver. But the cold he felt was nothing compared to what the person in front of him must have felt.

"Italy?" Francis asked, noticing the auburn curl poking out from under the hood of the man's cloak. He pushed the hood off of his head and looked up at the Frenchman.

"Francis," Feliciano said. "May I come in?"

"Of course." Francis stepped aside to allow the Italian into his house. Feliciano paused to knock the snow off of his shoes before stepping over the threshold.

"So, mon cherie, what brings you all the way to my home tonight?" Francis asked, gesturing to the armchair across from his own. Feliciano sat down and twisted his hands together while Francis seated himself. Feliciano looked up with determination in his eyes.

"We need your help." He said.

"'We'?" Francis repeated, lifting one eyebrow at the Italian.

"My brother and I." Feliciano clarified. "We want to overthrow our government."

Francis sat back, stunned. He quickly covered up his surprise. "Oh? May I inquire as to why? This is not a decision to be made lightly."

"We're aware." Feliciano nodded. "Our bosses have long since become unscrupulous. They do not know how to lead the people, and worse, they do not care."

Francis nodded slowly in agreement. Of course he knew about the situation in Italy; the nations were so close together, and he couldn't resist checking up of his darling little Italy from time to time.

"And what, exactly, do you wish for my assistance in?" Francis asked. "Surely you do not want me to take over your government." His voice was a little hopeful. Feliciano smiled ruefully.

"Not in a million year, old friend." He said. Francis chuckled.

"Then what is it?" He asked.

"We've written to Napoleon, but he has never responded." Feliciano said. "We know we'll need his help to be successful in our endeavors to overthrow the oligarchy and create a free republic."

"So it is not _my _aid you require, but Napoleon's?" Francis asked. "That hurts, cherie." He placed a hand over his heart, pretending to be affronted. Feliciano shifted nervously in his seat.

"Relax, Feliciano," Francis chuckled again. "I was only teasing you. Of course I will talk to Napoleon for you."

"Thank you, Francis." Feliciano bowed his head gratefully.

"Why just you?" He asked, eyeing Feliciano. "Why has Lovino not come to me as well?" The elder Italian was not his favorite of the pair, but he wouldn't mind seeing the feisty half-nation grovel before him.

"He stayed behind to keep an eye on the politicians." Feliciano said. "We thought it best that only one of us came, so as not to arouse suspicion."

Francis nodded in understanding. "Well, your request for me is simple enough. What you do with what comes of my assistance, however, will be much more complex than you've ever known."

Feliciano nodded once, his eyes determined. "I know."

Francis could hear the weight of every Italian in Feliciano's voice. He would be alright.

* * *

**AN: this took a bit of background research. After looking up both of these people, this is the best I could come up with regarding them. It's not very good in terms of going with the prompt, but to be fair, I didn't have much of a prompt.**

**Niccolò**** Machiavelli was a historian, diplomat, philosopher, humanist, and writer in the early 16****th**** century in Florence (North Italy). He is considered to be the founder of modern political science. His most well-known work, **_**The Prince**_**, describes an unscrupulous politician and the book became widely famous because he seemed to be endorsing the behavior of the ends justifying the means.**

**Ugo Foscolo was a writer, revolutionary, and poet in the late 18****th**** and early 19****th**** century in Venice (North Italy). He was a prominent member of the national committees, and he wrote to Napoleon Bonaparte, expecting him to overthrow the corrupt Venetian oligarchy and install a free republic. Instead, Napoleon handed Venice over to the Austrians. (Whoops.)**


End file.
